


plaything

by Drbwho



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Kidnapping, Older Man/Younger Woman, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:52:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 17,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3380501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drbwho/pseuds/Drbwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isn't everything just a game? Everyone is a part of it, even those who choose not to play. And it is sick, and it is twisted, and there are cheaters and liars at every turn. And it does not end, not really. Not ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. first

**Author's Note:**

> please, please pay attention to the tags on this one. 
> 
>  
> 
> dripping in gold he comes  
> feast your eyes on that man  
> he's the one to teach me what i am  
> now I've seen it all

He left his car on the side of the small road, shrugging on a dark coat to combat the harsh wind. The man was alone; it was early enough to drive the winding roads fast, passing only a handful of vehicles once he was out of the city. The surrounding expanse of hills and trees afforded him the seclusion he wanted. Not that he was worried about being followed, although he was almost certain someone would be watching him.

A quick glance to his phone told him he was close, toggling between the GPS function and the text from an unknown number he’d received at dawn. At first he thought it was sent to him on accident, or perhaps some odd sort of prank, but after seeing the headline story of the morning news he had an idea of who the sender might have been. A foolish, cruel boy with a very long leash.

_

**i’ve left a present for you**  
 **53°10’29.9”N 6°13’48.7”W**  
 **pick it up soon**

**_**

Through the woods he walked, following the makeshift path worn down by hikers. Boots kicked away the overgrown weeds and shrubbery; it wasn’t yet warm enough to see any significant amount of traffic. And surely it wouldn’t be far from the road; the boy would want whatever it was to be found. Eventually.

A minute or so later he saw the present left for him; a flash of red in his periphery signalled him to the left, paired with a rustling that did not seem to have been caused by the wind. The man was accustomed to listening, to paying attention. And so he followed the red beacon. It was close, his prize; just off the weathered path.

On closer inspection he found it wasn’t a thing after all, but wasn’t he already expecting it to be her anyway? And there she was, bound to a tall tree with rope around her middle, hands secured at her sides and blue eyes wide in fear. A gagged mouth expelled a strained, muffled cry when the man met her gaze. _Help me, please_ , she told him without words. But there was also terror there, apprehension toward the unknown man who might, or might not, be her saviour.

Knowing his _benefactor_ , he would not have been surprised to see a large red bow plastered to her head. He would not have been surprised to see more blood.

His own features would be displaying concern then; facial muscles let his mouth hang open in what he hoped was a look of genuine shock. He moved his feet, hurriedly, to the place she was held. _Who hurt you, little one?_ He knew, of course, who had done the hurting, but he had his own part to play. And how else can someone win, if they don’t play?

When she was finally free, he thought she might try to bolt. Her newly uncovered lips trembled, eyes flicking in either direction in search of an escape route. But they both knew the truth of it; she was weak, she needed assistance. Her gait was already so unsteady, black pants torn and a shirt covered in bits of bark. She would not make it far. And so her feet remained planted.

“Thank you.” Her soft voice was rough with overuse; how long had she been there, yelling and begging for some shining knight?

And what type of knight was he? “Can you walk?” He reached out to her, slowly. She was a frightened creature; he mustn’t act too fast. His other hand extended out, palm open, in a gesture of harmlessness while his dominant limb inched toward her. “My car is just up ahead.”

The girl nodded, staring down at the foreign fingers that had come to clasp around her shoulder. A tentative step forward and the pair made a gradual, silent journey. He pulled off his coat, offering it to her. For a moment he thought she might decline, but clouds reigned over sun and the wind was biting; the gooseflesh on her shivering arms gave away the truth of it. She practically swam in material, tangled auburn locks spilling from over the collar. An odd sense of deja vu took hold of him as he surveyed her for any injury, but the feeling was gone in the blink of an eye, brushed away with the twigs and leaves; he would not allow himself to dwell on it.

Almost to the waiting car, he heard her sharply suck in air, eyelids slamming in a wince as she stumbled. Looking down, he discovered the cause; bare feet had stepped on a small tree branch. _Bare feet?_ How careless of him, her selfless rescuer, to miss such a thing! Before she could protest, arms scooped her up, cradling the girl to his chest. His arms locked under knees and around her back.

She was rigid against him, panicked eyes watching him with the skepticism that only came from someone who had been truly harmed in the past. He knew that look; he might have worn the same look once himself, although she would never see it on him. And yet, after a few moments she began to relax in his arms, fatigue seemingly overtaking vigilance as she allowed herself to be carried to safety.

How _lucky_ she was, that he found her.


	2. second

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, unpluckable flower of the moon!  
> oh, untetherable bird of the blue!  
> you who shall deserve  
> you who shall deserve

“What’s your name?” His hands were loose on the steering wheel, navigating the car absently through the twists and turns. The girl hadn’t spoken since she thanked him; she hadn’t done much of anything, staring straight ahead, slouched in the seat next to the man.

A quick glance over to her; messy reddish hair obstructed most of her face, but he could see enough of it to know she was listless, unfocused. He wondered how she had been led into the woods; a promise of a romantic hike? A flat tyre? Had the rope been next to the tree, waiting for her when they made it to their grim destination? Had she known what was happening when the boy secured the bindings? Had she been waiting for him to return...was she still?

He pulled the car over, half into the grassy border before the trees that acted as a barrier. His phone was hastily removed from a pocket, but his words remained patient; each syllable still dripped with concern, with _kindness_. “Well, at least tell me where you live. Or a number…a family member I can call? Surely someone is worried about you.” Isn’t that what a concerned stranger would say? The words slipped out effortlessly as he slid his index against the glossy screen.

Her response might have made a weaker man falter, as hopeless as it sounded. She spoke barely above a whisper; the words misting from her lips like a fog. “I don’t live anywhere. I don’t have anyone.”

 _Oh, but I have you now_ , he did not say. Instead, he sighed, his hold on the mobile phone tightening, and she would not be able to see exactly what he was doing with the device as she stared ahead. A quick message was sent, a few taps onto the phone’s screen with a deft thumb; had she noticed? Perhaps he wanted her to; she really ought to be paying attention.

 

**_**

  
**Your present is broken; a poor gift to give.**

**_**

 

The message served two purposes: _I’ve found the girl, you terrible child_ , and _what am i supposed to do with her?_ He had an idea; he had several ideas, ranging in severity. But he was in no rush; a great deal of the next phase would not only depend on his generous friend, but on the girl herself.

He shrugged, appearing to give up. “I guess it doesn’t matter; you’ll have to tell the police when we get to the station anyway.” The wheel turned, the gas pedal tapped with his foot, and they were driving again. The nearest law enforcement office was several kilometres northeast. The man was driving west. Again, he wondered if she was aware of what he was doing.

Her neck jerked, head turning to face him. “The station?” Her arms reached out, nearly grabbing onto his forearm, but she stopped herself before she touched him. “No, we can’t go to the station.” The hand hung in the air, purposeless, for a moment before she dropped it. She would have learned better than to grab at people, having been educated by her previous suitor. He was certain of that.

A caring citizen would argue the point, and so he did. “You were tied to a tree. You’re not telling me anything; this has to be reported. You need help.”

But her survival instinct was overtaking her trained courtesies; jaw set firm as she spoke through clenched teeth. “You don’t understand; _you can’t understand_. He owns them; it’s not safe. Please, sir. _Please.”_

She was wrong; he _did_ understand, better than she did. He knew exactly who and what the boy owned, or _thought_ he owned. What she would come to find out, eventually, _hopefully_ , would be how fluid control really was. Not matter how firm the hold might seem, everything has its price in the end. Everything and everyone.

Luckily, he was a wealthy individual.

But she did not know exactly who the man was, not yet. Exasperated, frustrated, the kind stranger asked a final question. “Since you’re not answering my questions, and you don’t want the police involved, where do I take you?” _I know where._

She was silent, hunching forward in defeat as her hands folded together in her lap. “I don’t know.” A pause, even as they both knew where it was leading. “Just into the city. I’ll find my way from there.”

He shook his head, eyes narrowing at her before moving back to the road. “Absolutely not. You’re not even wearing shoes.” Her options were woefully limited; he knew he had her then, even as he seemed reluctant to offer the sanctuary she needed. “My house is only a few minutes away. At least get yourself cleaned up before you end up on the streets." One of his hands brushed through his hair, a signal to her that he was frustrated, stressed. Beneath his chest, his heartbeat was steady. "We’ll figure something out.”

She didn’t refuse, and he had no other option to give. She rubbed at her arms, raw from struggling at the rope, before she whispered a word to the confined space of the car. “Alayne.” 

The man looked at her, confused. Her eyes were weary, older than her years , sunken around her youthful face. “I’m sorry?”

“My name. It’s Alayne.”

 _You clever little liar._ He smiled at her, but the smile meant something different to him. “Call me Petyr.”

His phone buzzed, and at the nearest red light he glanced down at the short message.

 

**_**

  
**is it broken? i thought it might be.**  
 **fix it for me, will you?**

**_**


	3. third

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we move in fear, we move in desire  
> now i know how you feel  
> i'm a pilgrim  
> you're the shrine to

His home was nothing out of the ordinary. With an exterior comprised of a historical, preserved facade it would be difficult to tell his residence from the thousands of others in the city. And that was the point, wasn’t it? He pulled the car through the gate, giving her a nod as he shifted the vehicle into park. “Here it is.”

“It’s nice.” Her eyes flitted up to the bright green door, the old and worn brick that seemed timeless even against the busy streets it faced. Her jaw was clenched; he could see the tension there, just as well as he could see her fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. He knew, and he knew because he’d seen it all before; the apprehension, the fear of the unknown. The man may have saved her, but he was still only a stranger. Hadn’t everyone, at some point in their childhood, been told never to trust them, the figures lurking around the edges?

Being in the position the girl was currently in, she must have ignored that sage, parental advice at some point. _Poor girl._

She was different, _Alayne,_ but he couldn’t yet be sure just _how_ different she was. Unlike some of the others, this one might might be more acutely aware of potential threats. He thought again of a frightened animal; head franticly jerking to and fro, constantly alert and on edge. Forever ready to run, ready to hide.

His hands were the tools of his trade; they could mould and they could destroy. Whether he would build her or break her would depend on each word she uttered, on how she responded. And unless she demonstrated a keen mind to pair with those primal, fleeing instincts, he knew how the story would quickly end.

The soft, encouraging smile he granted her would not seem dangerous, but it was wiped from his face as soon as he turned away from the girl, opening the car door and rotating his keyring until the house key was between two fingers. It took until the metal slid into the opening beneath the door handle before she exited the car herself, scurrying up the three stone steps until she fell in behind him.

“I was worried you were going to stay in there all day.” _A joke_ ; some harmless banter catered to her, to calm her down.

She fidgeted, tugging at the ends of her messy shirt, a nervous smile on her face. “I thought about it.”

The man paused. “You don’t have to come in, Alayne.” He took a step backward as the door opened, extending an arm out in invitation. “But you’re safe here, if you want.”

If Petyr had been any other man he might have missed it; the change in her then. It was instantaneous and it was unconscious; the way the coldness darkened her features as she walked into his home; thin, reddish eyebrows inching together just slightly. Her voice dropped an octave, settling just outside the range of _courteous_. “There’s no such thing as safe.” And she believed those words, he was certain. It was a good thing she believed them; they were true, and it was a truth that many people pretended not to know.

_This was going to be interesting._

Opting out of a tour of the house, he instead led her directly into the hallway, opening a slim door to the side and grabbing a crisp, white towel. “Here, bathroom’s the next one down.” An index finger pointed her in the right direction. “Do you need anything else?” Simple and not overly welcoming; he wasn’t entertaining the idea of a long term guest, _not yet._ That wasn’t the agreement.

“No. No, thank you.” She smiled that polite, reflexive smile again, the one she seemed to use to mask her anxiety. He watched her step into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. She fiddled with the handle for a moment, most likely realising there was no lock, before giving up. A minute later his ears picked up on the soft flow of the shower’s stream.

He sat down on the dark sofa in his living room, propping one arm over the back while the other reached for his phone. He might as well message the boy, while he was waiting. There was no telling when he would get another chance, now that the pace would be picking up.

**_**

**It’s quite a new model, to be damaged so.**

**Were you playing rough again?**

**_**

Of course he was; the kid was never good at keeping his toys for long.

A handful of minutes later and the water stopped running. The man stood, heading into his bedroom to grab a few pieces of clothing for her before standing outside of the bathroom, waiting.


	4. fourth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another friendly warning: please read the tags. 
> 
>  
> 
> weak and worried i  
> shut my wild eyes  
> and crumble to a pile  
> of dust and fertilise

**_**

**is it going to be a problem for you?**

**_**

He smiled to himself at the boy's taunt. Surely he didn't doubt him, not anymore. The phone was pocketed after he read the response message; instead of an immediate reply he'd leave it for a while. 

Instead of barging into the room, he settled for gently rapping on the door. “Alayne? I have some clean clothes.”

Silence for a few seconds, and the door handle turned. She only allowed it to open a crack; her towelled figure just slightly visible as she reached a hand through the entrance to collect the garments.

“Thanks.” The girl’s response was much too polite as her hand found the clothes he held out. But the extremity lingered just a little too long, and green eyes focused on the open gash to her forearm. _Oh, that just won’t do._ His fingers snaked around her wrist, assessing the wound. “What happened here?” He could guess, but he didn’t want to guess; he wanted to _know_.

“Nothing; just a scratch…from before.” _Before I was tied up and left alone_ , she did not need to say.

His free hand palmed the door, pushing it wide as he pulled her arm closer for inspection. “I have some first aid supplies in the cabinet there.” His gaze moved to suspicious blues. “Was it metal?” The cut wasn’t terribly deep; no need for sutures or a visit to a hospital, but it wouldn’t hurt to clean it up. He didn’t need her infected, after all.

“No, not metal.” She took a step back still in his hold; a signal for him to let go.

She didn’t want to elaborate, it seemed; eyes cast down as he dropped her arm, making his way to the storage space above the sink. “You’ll have to be honest, Alayne. Have you had a tetanus shot?” A question that was useful for the future as well, he supposed. He pulled out a tube of antibiotic ointment and a pack of steri-strips for the laceration before he approached the girl again, cautiously, holding the items up as if they were a flag of surrender.

“Yeah, a few years ago.”

“We should clean it up, then, at least.” He was already twisting the plastic top off the tube, squeezing out a small amount of opaque ointment. She nodded, almost reluctantly, as she extended her arm to him. Her other hand clutched the towel to her chest tightly, as if suddenly becoming concerned about her modesty. But the man was focused on the injury, not on her body, not then, _not entirely_.

In his periphery he could see her long, pale limbs. He could see the swollen ankle that would make it difficult to run away. There was a dark bruise on her jaw as well; at first he had not been sure if it was dirt, but he could see the ugly mark remained after her shower. As he started to apply the thin, adhesive strips he could see just how tense she’d become again; he wondered how long she could keep it up. Just how much energy was left in her?

The silence appeared to bother her; she shifted on her heels uncomfortably. “Are you a doctor?”

The harmless man laughed as he inspected the injury for any debris. “Not at all; far from it.”

She sucked in air as he pressed the antibiotic onto her open flesh, holding back a wince. “Then what do you do?”

Deft fingers continued to work, keeping the broken skin aligned as he pressed another strip down. “I work in finance.”

“For a company?" And after his casual nod: "Which one?”

_And there it was._

His hand stilled. He noticed she wasn’t breathing. She was waiting, waiting for his answer. The knuckles gripping the towel were white.

The words were slow, deliberate. “A big one.”

It took less than five seconds; she was much more agile than he suspected she would be. Immediately, the girl retracted her arm and darted around him, avoiding his hand as he tried to grab her leg, fleeing through the bathroom door and into the hall. But she was hurt, and he’d been ready for it; he was on her before she made it to the foyer. Strong arms grabbed her, jerking her back to him. He wrapped himself around her from behind, locking her forearms to her abdomen as they both moved to their knees.

She yelled, of course she yelled; they always did at first. And he let her, for a moment; no one would hear her anyway.

And after that moment, holding her tightly as she struggled and squirmed, he spoke, quietly, gently; an attempt to soothe the startled animal. “ _Shh, shh now_ , Let’s not be hasty: listen to what I have to say before you make any rash decisions, hm?”


	5. fifth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to be with you alone  
> and talk about the weather  
> but traditions i can trace against the child in your face  
> won't escape my attention

His chest was damp; the girl’s wet hair pressed into the front of his shirt. Every turn of her head soaked it further, and when she snapped her occiput back into his ribs he felt a cold burst of air just below his neck from the water. She fought and fought; the last, frantic bursts of adrenaline coursing through her desperate veins. Some people could lift cars with that sort of extreme energy; Alayne couldn’t even tear free from a man barely taller than herself.

This was a girl who had been broken for a long while, he could see that plainly enough; he could sense it on her. The mask of courtesies she wielded to keep herself alive had turned her insides hollow, airy bones had pneumatized like a bird’s, forming pretty little criss-crossing trusses in place of solid collagen and calcium. She could not be stable, not with such a feeble skeleton carrying her.

After she began to tire, muscles ceasing to truly battle her restricted limbs, his nose came to rest just behind her ear as he kept her still against him. She smelled good, she smelled clean and pure; everything he was not, everything he planned to steal from her. He would take it slowly; he would extract each drop of it from her, piece by infinitesimal piece. She might not even notice, not until it was too late, not until it was gone. He took in a deep breath through his nostrils, savouring that scent for a moment as she writhed.

He would enjoy it while it lasted.

The towel wrapped around her middle was loose, nearly exposing her struggling form. One of his arms looped around just slightly, pulling the white fabric up to protect her modesty in a sign of good will. His knee pressed against one of her legs, pulling her down to the side until she was nearly sitting, relieving the pressure from her injured ankle.

_See, little one, look here; I can be kind._

But Alayne was weak; she was hungry, hurt and ill-prepared for an escape. Her mind was surely in pieces as well, having been deceived a second time so close to the first. And it showed; a tired whine expelled from her hoarse throat, one that seemed to be a culmination of several days of fear and quiet anguish.

A strange thought seeped into his head at the sound; one that had no place there. It was sudden, too quick to be pushed away so easily. For a second, just enough time for a single blink of an eye, he did not want to fix her; he just _wanted_ her. She was beautiful there, even in her misery; her arms useless limbs at her sides, her shoulders slumped in defeat. She was ripe, she was malleable; she might be his ruin. And god, he wanted to fuck her anyway. He wanted to fuck her and teach her how to protect herself from hurt. He wanted to show her how to be strong, how to take control. _Her_ , this child, this weak little creature he’d captured in a house-shaped cage.

But, of course, that’s not how it worked. The thought was shunted, locked away in a deep corner of the web that was his mind.

Instead, his hold loosened just slightly, gauging her reaction. When she did not try to run, he decided it was time to _talk_. “Think about it; where are you going to go?” His voice was low, a murmur at her earlobe as her body gave in to exhaustion. “Do you want me to bring you back to him?”

She went rigid again, even in her tired state. Her head shook fervently, spine arching into him. “No. _Please_.”

 _Begging already? It's much too soon for that._ “Then I can assure you, the safest place to stay is with me.” A lie, a terrible and convincing attempt to make her captivity just a little bit easier. He let her go then, unhanding her arms and leaving her alone, allowing her the pretence of a _choice_. The man stood, looking down at the tangled, wet auburn hair.

Still half-sitting on the hard, wooden floor, her neck rotated until she could meet that greenish stare. Blue eyes were cold, and there was something strong underneath the fear, something new and intriguing. “Why should I trust you? Why should I trust a man called Littlefinger?” And what that strength seemed to say to him: _I know who you are. I know who you work for._

 _Clever, clever girl._ He gifted her a small smirk. “Because you have no one else, _Sansa_. Isn’t that enough of a reason?"

There was never a choice, not really. 


	6. sixth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come on, don't push me down that road  
> i'm always twisting, always sold to follow,  
> all made up how you'd like  
> i'm back seats, indoors

When she did not answer him, he skirted around her, through the living room and into the kitchen. The refrigerator was opened, hands idly grabbing a few items from inside before the cold was shut away again. A glass of milk was poured, the electric kettle turned on, his fruit bowl raided for a pair of apples. His mouth pulled into a frown as he looked down to his shirt, the darkened colour from the water had spread nearly to his umbilicus. In the pocket of his pants, a phone vibrated.

**_**

**i need her ready in a month**

**will it be a problem?**

**_**

 

The boy was too impatient. He sighed, placing the phone back in his pocket without responding.

He took a bite of the blushed red fruit, one arm reaching into a cabinet to locate a mug and teabag. His mind was clear; the temporary distance from the girl afforded him returned lucidity as teeth bit again into the flesh of the apple, licking his lower lip to catch the lingering juices. He was calm, _he was always calm_ , he was waiting.  

When she finally met him in the room, and he knew she would eventually, she was wearing the clothes he’d provided before she'd tried to leave. Her damp hair was tied haphazardly back, and it seemed to make the bruise at her jaw more prominent, the ugly purplish hue left a severe shadow from earlobe to cleft. He wondered if she wound wince, if he held her there.

The shirt he’d given her was grey and ill-fitting; it hung loosely around her arms and waist, giving her a thinner, more scrawny appearance. The soft, black sweatpants crept below her ankles, dragging alone the floor. She crossed her arms when he did not look at her right away; he could see all he needed to in the reflection of the kettle he patiently watched.

And still, he did not look up, not until the water was boiled and poured into the waiting cup. He stared at the liquid, watching the brown swirl and dilute, lazy, almost unfocused green fixed on the steam breathing upward into the open air. Was she watching it as well? Did she want to toss the scalding fluid on him and flee? Was she trying to figure out if she could reach the mug before he realised? Those might have been the thoughts on his mind, if their roles were reversed.

His neck craned, slowly rotating in her direction, and he met her eyes.

“Here.” He palmed the unbitten apple, tossing it in her direction with little warning.

Her reflexes were intact enough; she managed to catch it, cradling it between her fingers as she analysed it, as if her eyes could detect a trap held within the food. The man smiled; he could practically see her mouth watering at the sight of the nourishment; her body was parched, desperate for a drink. But much like a thirsty man surrounded by saltwater, she was hesitant to take that first, deadly swallow.

“You should eat.” It wasn’t really a command, but there was direction in his tone. He took another bite of his own, as if to demonstrate that it was safe to consume. An eyebrow raised, challenging her to do the same.

Instead, the girl boldly took a step toward him, and another, until she could set the fruit next to the mug of scalding tea. Her fingers rested on the surface, and her head dropped to stare at them. “You know who I am.” It sounded like disappointment, a quiet string of words, almost spoken to herself.

“And you know who I am.” He slid the tumbler of milk down the counter, toward her splayed hands. “Was it meant to be a secret?” Not unkindly said; the man was not always terrible. He dealt in facts as well as deceit, but he was never cruel without reason.

And she was making her own decision then; he could see the choice she’d set for herself. In front of her, displayed for her, there was boiled water and there was milk. One was sustenance, the other a weapon; both could be used for survival. _Which one will you choose, little bird?_ Hollowed bones could benefit from the calcium; she could be stronger, but to fly away was tempting. Was she curious enough to stay the course, or would she try to do him harm? The man’s heartbeat was steady. His hands did not twitch, his palms did not sweat.

And when the cool, white liquid was brought to her lips, his own mouth pulled up in a small smile as he watched her drink. The tea sat untouched. 

Even as he smiled his eyes remained hard.

 


	7. seventh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and you're kept in an open cage  
> so you're free to leave or stay  
> sometimes you get confused  
> like there's a hint i'm trying to give you

She was smart enough to know not to drink too much; each time the glass left her lips he could see only small gulps has been taken. Better to not upset a stomach devoid of nourishment for what appeared to have been several days. She stared at him the entire time; skeptical, azure eyes waiting for the catch, waiting for the kill.

How long had she been attached to the vicious boy? It had been been at least a year; six months had flown by since the announcement of Ned Stark’s death. He remembered seeing her on the television, eyes dry and hard at the boy’s side at her father’s funeral. By then she had learned to be taut, to be alert, to hold the tears inside and let them loose in solitude.

But something must have happened, and he was not yet privy to the details. Sansa must have said the wrong thing, made the wrong move, for him to arrange such an excursion. Or perhaps he had simply grown tired of her, or found some other temporary plaything to occupy his time. He was known for being fickle, and Petyr, more often than not, profited from that childish fault.

Whatever it was that led her to the tree, _and to him_ , she would tell him eventually, he was certain.

“You look older.” A trace of milk remained on her upper lip as she spoke, her voice stronger than before.

“Hm?” Lazy eyes regarded her; the man seemed unconcerned, as if her predicament, _as if the entire situation_ , did not warrant his full attention.

“From when I last saw you. Your hair is grey now, at the sides. And you were wearing a suit then.” She studied him; the wet cotton shirt, the jeans in place of formal slacks, his hair mussed from the windy hike and the subsequent struggle. Indeed, he would appear to be a different man altogether, if years had passed between sightings.

The man nodded, almost imperceptibly. “And you barely came up to my chest.” _And you were a child, with the innocent, unblemished eyes of a girl who believed in fairy tales_. He remembered the meeting she was referring to; the first time her father travelled to the city, his two young daughters in tow. The little, red-haired girl had been the one to catch his eye, and he could clearly see Ned’s disapproving glare as Petyr bent to kiss her extended hand. She had giggled at the courtesy, and her laugh was her mother’s laugh. He wondered if it was still, should she find cause to be cheerful again.

It had been a quick introduction, and he was surprised she remembered it, and slightly impressed. He did not let it show in his expression.

She set the milk down, half finished. There was a faint colour to her face now, and an odd sort of ease, even as her form remained rigid and alert. What a cruel predicament her life had become, to find even an infinitesimal sliver of comfort in his home. _How pitiful._

  
Eyes lingered at her purplish jaw. “He hit you.” His arm extended, _oh so slowly_ , to allow the tips of his fingers to graze the swollen wound. She did not wince, but she did watch him as his moved, taking a step closer to her so they stood face-to-face.

“ _You_ grabbed me.” The girl countered, defensive, all formality removed since the tangle in the hallway. There was no squirming, no backing away on her part. She might have forgotten how to cower, under a lion's hand. 

“But I won’t hit you.” And it was the truth, even if she did not believe him. And why should she, having spent years living with monsters? And more than that, Petyr was not an honest man by trade. She would be better off, she would survive longer, if she did not place trust in anyone at all. It is what saved him, after all.

As if to reinforce his words, because he was not sure if his eyes could convey that sentiment of honesty any longer, he closed the distance between them, bending slightly until he could place a gentle, chaste kiss on her jaw, just below the spot where his fingers remained. She was warm there, where the injury healed, and soft. For half a breath he remained before retreating, ignoring the pull his body called for, pushing aside the urge to meet her lips with his own. 

When he pulled away, he could see the confusion in her face, just before she hid it with a tensed jaw. The give and take, the captivity and the kindness; she was unsure of what to think.

_Good._


	8. eighth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> though i’ve said the worse things,  
> and i can’t reverse things,  
> secrets of the floor lay gambled in the doorway.

She slept. Or perhaps she didn’t; he had no way of knowing.  
He did not know because he’d shown her to the spare room and left her there without a second glance. The room was simple; a bed she would rest in, a chest of drawers for the clothes she did not have, a side table for the belongings the girl did not possess.  
A window that she would not use to flee.  
And while she slept or did not sleep, he worked. He made calls, he wrote emails. He neglected to reply to the boy. It wasn’t atypical, his lack of response; it had happened before. He was meant to be busy, _busy with her_ , and prior experience would indicate to the brat that he might not have time to check his mobile.  
The problem was, he _did_ have the time. And he didn’t reply.

  
He thought about bringing her the leftovers of the dinner he made, leaving them at the foot of the bed. He thought about how much she would hate him soon. It nettled him, nagged at him like a fly buzzing around his head, one too swift for his hand to swat. 

 

The next day, when the sun dipped low and the girl still kept herself to the room, he went to her. The man didn’t knock before turning the door handle, nor did he announce his arrival. So his surprise was warranted, when he found her wide awake and side-lying on the bed, staring at his face as if she’d been expecting him.  
His cool exterior remained, as he closed the door behind him, leaning on the wood. “Did you sleep?”  
“I don’t know.” The honesty of the words bit into his chest. He pried himself from his leaning position, and left her there. 

 

It was another full day before she left the room, unprompted. He heard her before he saw her; the soft padding of feet, the trepidation of her steps as she made her way through the hall. The man was in the kitchen, nursing a glass of whiskey while he waited for the vegetables in the pan to warm. Had the wafting smell of cooking food given her the motivation to resurface? She must be hungry, she must be curious. He did not say anything to her; he did not acknowledge her at all, preoccupied with the various meal preparations.

At the table there were two plates, and she took the chair closest to the door. Wordlessly, he brought the food to the empty dining room table’s surface, stepping back into the adjacent room to grab a pitcher of water. By the time he returned, she’d made her plate and was digging her fork into the steaming broccoli.

And _God_ , was he smiling as he watched her? He hid the tilted mouth away before she saw, but she was too busy inhaling the food anyway. He picked at his own meal, preferring the harsh burn of the liquor to the sustenance the girl devoured. The man listened to the clanging of utensil and the way she took great swallows of water, for once unconcerned about being polite. It was endearing in a way that made him cross with himself for finding it so.

When she finished, she set the cutlery down and looked to him. “Thank you.” With that, she stood; the backs of her knees guiding the chair further as it scraped against the polished floors. The goal was to lock herself away again, he was certain; to make her sanctuary the room down the hall, to emerge for food and nothing else. _It would not do._

His arm darted out, catching her bicep as she tried to pass him. She stalled in his firm grip, her bold blue eyes widening. She was a mouse in a trap again, and how quickly the change had come. Part of him wanted to let her go, but that part of him wasn’t great or loud enough to control the nerves and synapses that guided muscles to clench her arm.

His eyes were lead, and just as hard. “Thank me properly.” _A command_. It was the start of something, and she knew it. The game was beginning; the girl had rested, she had recovered, and now it was time.

He let go of her as she bent to him, and she knew what his expectations were then; it would not have been hard to guess. A peck, a second-long connection between her lips and his, and the taste was sweet.


	9. ninth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're quiet, you can hear the monster breathing…  
> do you hear that gentle tapping?  
> my ugly creature's freezing

It was afternoon, and the girl had not left the spare bedroom.

No noise echoed beyond the door she lived behind, and lived there she did. Sansa had burrowed inside, made herself a sanctuary in the bastille, and she thought that might make her safe. Others, ones without clever blue eyes or a dead woman’s hair, would have thought the same.

He knew how to take that away.

A warmed scone and warmer drink rested on a tray, balanced idly on one hand by the man. He whistled as he moved down the hall, alerting her to his presence. Surprise was not his game, not this time, and not with her.

The door swept open at his press. She was wearing the same too-large clothes of his, staring out of the closed window and down to the patch of green below. That fire, those long tendrils fell, loose and wild, along her straightened back. She did not hunch or bend; her posture betrayed her upbringing.

“Eat.” He spoke softly; the man would not have cause to shout, he was certain.

She did not move, and his jaw tightened. He set the tray on the bed, taking a step toward her. The girl still ignored him; not even a glance was given in his direction. And so another foot forward, and the other, until the man was at her side, regarding her with a raised eyebrow. She was stubborn, even after the ordered kiss, and she would know it would not be the last action demanded from her. She was bright enough for that.

And she did not look at him, her blue eyes staring at nothing in particular through the glass.

God, he wished for clouds then, he wished for rain; anything to take the sun from the sky. Those beams reflected in a glow against her ivory skin and set her hair ablaze. He should leave, he should turn and reconsider, he should back away. His fingers twitched; for the first time in a long while, he knew again how it felt to _want._

Almost gently, he took her face and turned it to him.

There was nothing there, an empty void behind the eyes. She’d figured out how to set aside the fear, the pain. And when she spoke, it was almost as if she’d read his mind. “What do you want from me?” Her bottom lip trembled, just for a second, but the man did not miss it. He wondered how quickly the boy had forced her to forget herself. He wondered if he could find her again.

But that wasn’t the deal, and so his fingers brushed her soft lips, stopping any further shiver, and he answered her. “You know.”

And she did know, and perhaps she’d already prepared herself for it; she did not hesitate the way she had the evening before. Her mouth, dry and quick, met his for not even a second before she backed away again.

 _Oh no, little one_ , he wanted to tell her, but the sadness in his eyes might have given the sentiment away. A slight shake of his head, the briefest twist of the neck, and his mouth was on hers again, one hand reaching to her shoulder to draw her nearer. _A peck will not suffice_ , he insisted with his lips, _I will always want more and more and more._

Her mouth moved against his, uncertain in the way a young girl’s motions might be. He helped her, patiently, _cautiously_ , showing her the way. His tongue teased her lips apart, and the girl did not complain, although he had to coax her own tongue to join his. She did not know what to do with her arms, hung limply on either side of her. She did not know what to do at all. 

The man pulled her away, away from the window and the light, tugging her toward the bed without breaking their connection. And down, down he guided her as he sat, positioning her on his lap. Had this level of intimacy happened prior, with other _clients_? He couldn’t remember, and that realisation alone should have terrified him. Alas, it didn’t have a chance to, not when the girl was moving her in tandem with him now, learning, slowly becoming a willing party to the dance. There was an urgency building in her, a culmination of emotions hidden deep within. Instead of doing what he was supposed to be doing, he urged her on, opening his mouth wider to her, letting his tongue explore further.

Rationality escaped him, leaving his mind, replaced by her lips and her skin and her taste. It was not affectionate, their meeting; her teeth clashed with his as his fingers rested between her ribs, holding her steady. And her own arms wrapped around his neck; an anchor in the unwieldy ocean. They were both set adrift.

And then, a crash; the tray had fallen from the bed, hitting the ground with a clang. The man broke away, watching the tea spill onto the floor, a growing stain, creeping outward. She moved to stand, and confusion reigned on the girl’s face when grey eyes flicked back to her; she hadn’t time to hide it. Her lips were swollen and pink in the exact hue of her cheek, flushed and warm.

If he regretted it, the mistake of holding her, it did not show. If he enjoyed it, well, that did not show, either. He pulled himself up, stepping around the remnants of her meal before leaving her alone again.


	10. tenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you're my plaything  
> yeah, i'm wondering  
> yeah, i'm wondering  
> how cruel i've been

He didn’t bother with the bathroom light. The window provided enough of a glow for the man to see himself clearly in the mirror above the marble sink. Even without an electric source of light he could visualise the cracks in his face, beyond the regular cares that appeared between eye and temple, the ones that had slipped through while the girl moved atop him. The weakness lingered there, taunting him. _Stop being a fool_ , his hazy mind pleaded; _she’s just a girl, just like the others._

A lie, really; _she wasn’t._

He was hard, still, and he wondered if the girl had felt him, pressing against her as their mouths worked in tandem. For a moment he tried to ignore it, turning the knob marked with a “C” to allow the cold water to spill into the basin. Both hands cupped, collecting the stream so he could splash it into his face, washing away the tells that no one else could see.

The crisp, white towel hanging at his side wasn’t acknowledged. Instead, green watched the water drip down from his face. Some of the clear drops landed on his shirt, leaving little darkened spots on the fabric, while others ended up on the hard sink’s surface. He slowed his breathing, counting each inhalation to match the paired exhalation, acutely aware of his slowly beating heart beneath a scarred chest.

_Control._

That was it, wasn’t it? It all came down to maintaining his hold, ignoring those baser instincts that threatened to unhinge the man, that threatened to unhinge _any_ man. He shook his head, droplets flinging around the small room, forcing his eyes shut in a slow blink. He was more practical than that; _he must be._

He opened them again, and it was useless. Despite his efforts, unwanted thoughts pried through, even in his attempt to force a calmness upon himself. Reckless fantasies, likely triggered by the blood flowing south instead of to the synapses behind the eyes, broke through, unwanted.

He imagined the tray had not fallen, and that there had been no interruption. Perhaps he would have pulled her down, flipped her, spread her legs with a lewd, grinding motion. Her face would have been flushed; her mouth loose and open as he reached below her navel, finding her warm and wanting. Her gasps against his ear might have goaded him on, driven him to guide himself to her entrance and…

His dominant hand reached down, still damp from the sink, grasping himself through his pants. _No_ , it wasn't enough, not nearly; he wanted her hands, her mouth, and how would it feel? He could see her, on her knees below him with her red hair wild and splayed out on either side of his legs. Her mouth, swollen and pink, tentatively moving toward him.

His hand slipped underneath his boxers, beginning a slow stroke as he stared at the reflection in the mirror, losing the grasp he had on reality. He watched himself thinking of her tongue, lightly grazing the tip of him, tasting. She would be slow, cautiously taking him in, inch by inch, until she grew accustomed to the motions. He would help her at first; a firm hand weaving through her hair, establishing a torturously unhurried rhythm, but once she acclimated herself he would let her go, planting either palm on the bed as she worked.

His own hand moved faster then, picking up the pace as his thoughts became erratic. He could feel her humming, moaning around him. Perhaps she’d be touching herself as well; small fingers pumping inside of her while she made him groan.

His reflection contorted at his last, desperate motions; _this is what a loss of restraint looks like_. A long, last breath, one last glimpse of red, and he promised himself it would not happen again.

He grabbed the towel, cleaning himself up before making his way into the office adjoined to his room. His phone rested on the polished desk; two new messages alerting on the screen.

He ignored them.


	11. eleventh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fire outside  
> is burning up the place,  
> but you're inside  
> burning up my head

He left her to herself that night.

She didn’t bother to emerge at all, and he hadn’t expected her to. It gave him time to think, to plan, before he went to work in the morning. And when he left, when the sun had almost fully risen several hours later, he did not worry about her attempting an escape. The man would know if she tried, and he suspected she knew that much as well. Still, he wondered if the girl heard the engine of his car start, or the sliding of the gate as the vehicle was steered onto the busy road.

He wondered, but he did not worry.

 

The messages received, when he finally bothered to open them, were harmless inquiries. The boy was impatient; he wanted his repaired little toy soon. Perhaps not too soon, however, if the rumours of a new, young bird on his arm had any truth to them. Despite himself, he considered the grim reality he’d be thrusting Sansa Stark back into after he was finished with her.

 

Dusk was melding into night when he turned the knob of his front door, eyes alert for any sudden movements, any changes to his environment. The main room was dark, but he could see the kitchen light on in the distance. On further inspection he found food scattered on the table, along with a dirty plate in the sink. One less apple was could be counted amongst the fruit. His milk was left out, the jug warm to the touch as he poured it down the sink. She was trying to nettle him. Maybe it worked.

 

There were noises echoing in from the hallway; too close to be from her own room. She was in his then, and again the man was not surprised.  
The state he found his quarters in, however, _was_ surprising, much to his chagrin.

He discovered her in his office, bathing in the luminescence of the desk lamp pointed downward to the hard floor’s surface. The girl was kneeling on the ground, surrounded in files and paperwork. There were stray leafs of paper strewn about, along with dozens of books splayed face-down and open. Years of facts, figures and client information, all of which had been carefully organised, were an unrecognisable mess.

She looked up to him without a drop of guilt or shame, wearing the same large shirt despite new clothes being left in the bathroom. Her hair was wild and loose, _and how he wanted her._

Her brows furrowed, and she was the first to break the silence. “Where were you?”

It was more of an accusation than a question, but it still caused the man’s mouth to tilt, amusement trumping irritation. “Work. What do you think you’re doing?”

 _“Work.”_ With her retort, the smirk was wiped from his face. Did she really think she’d find anything in print that might implicate him? She was smarter than that. No, she’d done it in an attempt to hit a nerve, to incite something in him. _Maybe it worked._

He did not speak for a moment, and then: “Come here to me, _mo chailín rua_.” The man barely spoke above a whisper. When she did not make to move, he closed the distance himself, bending down until his face was an inch from hers. Finger and thumb darted out to grip her chin, too firmly, preventing her from turning away. Hard, lead eyes locked onto widened blue. “If you do something like this again, I’m afraid I’ll have to lock you in your room.” His tone was calm, but the warning was there, under the passive exterior. “Do you understand me?”

“It’s not my room.” Her jaw set, and she pulled back from him, arching her spine as leverage, one palm resting behind her as support. He let her go, watching the fear in her face turn to fury. “But go ahead. Lock me up.”

“Is that what you want? Is that why you did this?” He knew it wasn’t, but he was, admittedly, enjoying the dialogue. He stayed leaning toward her, _he stayed close._

The girl shook her head, red tendrils swinging just slightly after, following the motions of her neck. “I want to know why you’re doing this.”

The man kneeled then, one knee resting on wood, giving her a shrug. He picked up a piece of paper, idly scanning over the financial report. “The Lannisters pay well.”

Again, the girl's head gave a twist in refusal. “I don’t buy it. There’s more to it that that.”

“Is there?” He watched her, amused, flinging the paper aside.

“I’m sure of it.”

An eyebrow raised. “You’re right. There is.”

For a moment she was silent, waiting for him to explain, waiting for a better answer. When it was clear she wouldn’t get one, her face fell. “Then tell me why.” Petyr barely heard the words, and he could see the girl was small again; she’d shrunk back into herself.

The man stood, holding out his hand for her to take. She stared at the offer for a moment, seeming to weigh her options, before taking it. He pulled her up gently, watching her straighten out before he spoke again. “You can clean this up in the morning. We have work to do.”


	12. twelfth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yFhfsDlCtZY
> 
> i'm always in  
> the wake of the hope that  
> you might just sit and  
> talk a bit

There was a fireplace in the main room of his house. It was seldom used; most of the year was temperate enough to forego any sort of heating, but it was spotless nonetheless. A large mirror rested above it, bringing some needed decoration to the unadorned mantle. Perhaps he’d build a fire tonight; the space had grown cold in the evening hours.

He released her hand as he stopped in the centre of the room, and the girl’s body tensed. She was waiting for something terrible to happen, waiting for punishment for looking through his things. Surely he would, _he must_ ; he was her terrible captor, the one working for her even more terrible beau. She would be expecting the worst; he watched her freed hand flex after its release, as if trying to rid itself of his warmth, just before fisting into a ball.

For a moment he just looked at her with his uncaring stare, the one learned from decades of practice. And then, quietly: “What colour are your eyes, Sansa?”

She swallowed. It was a nervous gesture, and almost comically slow. He could see the thoughts behind those eyes; wondering what sort of trick the question was, debating whether she should even answer him. Eventually she did, and the reply came out almost as a question of its own. “Blue.”

The man nodded. “Okay.” He took a step nearer, but still maintained his distance, keeping back a few paces. The light from the kitchen provided enough visibility in the room for him to see her face clearly. “Did you once have a dog called Lady?”

The girl took a step back, heels closing in on the fireplace. The mention of the dog caught her off guard; she wasn’t prepared for the subject. He suspected it was one of the particularly painful memories in her life, even if more recent events overshadowed it. Her lips quivered, almost imperceptibly, but the man _noticed_ ; he always noticed. “How did you know-“

“Answer me.” His tone was harsh, uncompromising.

“Yes.” The words were lined with hurt, and a better man would have walked away. 

“Now then.” His fingers came to thread and clasp against his stomach. “Do you love Joffrey?”

Her response was much too fast, an automatic reflex from her days by the boy’s side. “Yes.”

He shook his head, and Petyr knew the smile he gave was cruel; he could see it himself in the mirror. “You’re a terrible liar. We need to fix that.” _Or else you won’t make it long at all._

“Fix it?”

“You have a tell, did you know? When you lie.” He moved then, to her. His hands gripped her waist and turned her around, allowing her a view of the pair of them in the mirror. “Watch yourself…can you see it?” His chest brushed _oh so slightly_ against her spine each time he pulled in a slow inhalation. His mouth rested an inch from her ear; he spoke barely above a whisper. “Is your hair red?” With that, he let his nose brush against the auburn, one of his hands sliding up her side until they could tangle in the locks. All the while he watched her reflection, unsettled eyes returning his stare. Her entire body was taut; stretched near to breaking and ready to flee.

“Yes.” _Truth, of course._

He nodded. And his next one: “Did Joffrey kill your dog?”

Her arms hung at her sides, and he wondered why she wasn’t using them against him. For a moment, she was simply sad in her reply. “No.”

 _“Liar_.” The hand at her waist wrapped around her torso, pulling her flush against him. “Do you see your tell?”

She squirmed against him feebly, attempting to regain the lost space between them. “I’m not lying.” Was she convincing him, or herself, then?

“You are.” His grip tightened, the fingers intertwined in hair moved to hold her neck in place. Before he could stop himself, he planted a dry kiss to the place behind her ear.

The press to her skin gave her pause; she stopped her movements and watched his reflection. He doubted she was aware of it yet, but he could feel her limbs relaxing, her body losing the tension. “My father did it. He took her into the yard and shot her. It wasn’t Joffrey.”

“And why,” Another kiss, greenish grey still focused on her reflection, “did he shoot the dog?”

“She bit him. Joffrey.” Her hands went to his forearm, still wrapped around her torso. They did not pull or fight, simply gripping. Perhaps she needed an anchor. Perhaps he could be one, if only for a moment. “But it wasn’t her fault. She was protecting me. It wasn’t her fault. It was…”

He nodded against her skin. “Who killed your dog, Sansa?”

The answer was quiet, her eyes finally leaving the mirror to tilt toward the man enough to see him. “Joffrey.”

Her mouth was close, and his hold on her neck allowed him to guide it further to his own. “You should remember that, when the time comes.” He could taste her breath, shallow and rapid. He could feel the heat from the rush of blood to her cheeks. He could hear the confusion she had yet to give voice to. “And you should learn your tell.”

And there was no time for talking anymore; the man was compelled by something other than his own words. His tongue slid into her mouth, savouring her, and she did not pull away.


	13. thirteenth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now i can't forget you  
> sword in my side  
> candle that burned me  
> deliver me light

The man had always been a good liar.

Maybe it could be learned, the art of deception, but as a boy he seemed to have a natural inclination for falsehood. He didn’t need to practice twisting his mouth into a contrite frown, or casting his greenish eyes to the floor. The false stories were fluid when he told them, often sounding more candid than the real truth.

And the boy never put much effort into thinking about how or why he did it. It came naturally, in the same way others might be predisposed to tenderness, or empathy or honesty. He was never bothered by the cognitive dissonance that might have hindered others; there was no internal struggle. And so the man prospered.

What were initially little, innocent mistruths warped into larger, more elaborate tales as he surpassed his teenage years. Stories intermingled with small truths, building and tangling as he challenged himself, seeking more, seeking better. His charisma, an intricate web of favours and acquaintances served to aid him in his more nefarious endeavours, and he steadily moved his way up in the world. He was a businessman, even before he held an office job, constantly seeking and delivering what people wanted. Because, all else aside, if there was one important lesson he’d learned in his life it was that being _owed_ was often more advantageous than being wealthy.

There might have been a girl once, that made him question his values.  
There might have been a girl now, with red hair that made him remember, with red hair that made him forget what a terrible man he was.

 

He didn’t know when, in the midst of the frenzy, his hand had slid up her shirt. It must have been sometime between their journey from the fireplace to the closed door to her room, but he had no memory of specifically _when_ the action had taken place. It was too late to regret it, anyway; his palm against a hardened nipple, having found his way underneath her bra as well.

His other hand, the one not preoccupied with the feel of her soft, warm flesh, pressed against the wooden door, some failed attempt at anchoring himself to reality. It wasn’t working; his body grew unwieldy, no longer manageable so near to her. He was losing that carefully crafted hold, that control he prided himself on. And worse, that baser instinct, the need, made it nearly impossible to care.

She was against the door, and he remembered her own hand had initiated the dance, pulling him closer. The man had no other choice; he had to oblige. There was no force in him willing to refuse it; and so he had taken the lead. And then it was his goading that brought one of her legs up to wrap around him, and his grip on her thigh that kept it there, relinquishing his tether to the door.

It might have started in haste, but Petyr had calmed himself, his body settling into a slow slide against her. She would be able to feel the bulge his pants did little to conceal, and he _wanted_ her to feel it. His mouth was open, tongue dipping lazily into her own, enjoying the whines that muffled between their lips.

And how easy would it be, to fuck her against the wall? The boy would never need to know, and she was smart enough to understand the implications for her if she let it slip; being tied to a tree would pale in comparison. His fingers twitched against her thigh, desperate to drag her clothes down, to pry apart the teeth of his zipper. He wanted to feel her, to dip into the wetness he knew could be found between her legs. _God_ , what would he give to drive himself inside of her?

But he thought of the phone, and of the messages the boy had likely sent in the interim, and the last, lingering ounces of rationality seeped in. His mouth left hers, and for a moment she moved forward a few inches to chase him, before realising what she was doing. Her lips were swollen from the nips his teeth granted her, eyes confused.

He wondered if anyone else had kissed her in the same way. His assumption was that Joffrey was cruel and unkind; the open, slow connections would simply bore him.  
And maybe that was the cause for her lack of protest. And maybe that’s why he had it in him to stop himself.

“ _Codladh sámh._ ” Words that were a breathy whisper into her ear as he pushed away from her. His hand reached around her, to the knob, and turned, leaving her as he turned and made his way to his own room.


	14. Fourteenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> please, please, PLEASE read the warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if i could open wide my inner sides  
> expose the flesh and show what being open really looks like

He didn’t hear her shut the door until he had closed himself behind his own. A soft click, and he wouldn’t have heard it at all if he hadn’t been listening for it. A soft click, and his heartbeat was deafening in comparison.

He leaned back against the wood, running fingers through his already mussed hair, the way he did in private sometimes when he found himself in a bind. The man had to ask himself what it was he thought he was doing. What it _appeared_ to be; a not so simple loss of control. The rules were gone, and he was losing…

The plan, the carefully constructed set of procedures, had been cast away, replaced with the call of her voice, the fire of her hair, the need to cull that fear she tried so hard to hide. Despite the clear awareness of his folly, despite the firing synapses in his brain telling him he was a fool, he still wanted to breach the hallway and seek her out. He still wanted to drive into her, fuck her shamelessly until she understood, until she knew that he belonged to her.

When had it gone wrong? He couldn’t pick a moment when the balance had shifted, and so maybe it had never been right in the first place. More than likely, he was lost the second he saw her trapped against the tree.

It was then, against the door, that he made his decision. She needed to go, to get out before Joffrey came to him seeking his well trained prize. He could say she escaped, he could show her how to run and not be found. A hundred ideas drifted in and out as he pieced together some semblance of a plan.

He pried himself up, slipping off his shirt and climbing into bed. He told himself the morning would be better, but he already knew himself to be a liar.

+

 

She was sitting on one of the island’s stools when he finally made his way into the kitchen the next morning. Her eyes were foggy from sleep as she dug a spoon into a bowl of yoghurt and granola, wearing one of his old, grey shirts and shorts. She seemed comfortable.

_Comfortable_. No, no that wouldn’t do. _Comfortable won’t work when she’s on the run._

The newspaper in his hand was set carefully down next to her food as he regarded the girl with hard eyes. “I have to go to work again tomorrow morning, Sansa. And then it’s time.”

She stopped chewing, waiting for him to finish. The grip on the utensil tightened; he wasn’t sure if she was aware of her body tensing, waiting for him to speak again.

“You can’t stay here any longer.” It wasn’t an ultimatum; there was no _one or the other_. It was simple; she had to leave. “He’ll want you back soon, and I’m assuming that’s not where you want to end up.”

The spoon dropped into the bowl as she swallowed; a slow, methodical motion. Even such a biologically casual act, paired with the way her throat tightened as her mouth emptied, was somehow intoxicating to him. But then lips quivered, and she was the frightened girl in the woods again, all contentment gained was lost in an instant. “What will he do to me?”

“That’s not my concern.” His hands splayed out onto the surface as he watched her reaction, as he tried to explain, as he tried to _detach_. “That’s why you have to leave now. I’m giving you a chance to escape.”

“Where will I go?” Her voice was so quiet; she pulled into herself, making herself small.

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” 

Silence, for long minutes as he stared at her; he could nearly see the gears shifting in her mind, weighing her options. He thought she might be wondering if it was a game, part of his scheme, or maybe she could see that he was struggling with the words. At some point she made a decision, and he saw the desperation alight in her eyes. 

It was with fearful fingers that she finally reached out to him, intertwining her hand with his. Wide eyes pleaded as palms connected and she pulled him to her. On the stool, she nearly matched his height when her free hand grasped the side of his head, tugging his mouth near to hers.

Oh, the terrible things people will do just to survive.

But when she kissed him he did not retreat; he met it hungrily. It must have been lemon yoghurt; he could still taste in on her; the man’s tongue pried her open and sunk in. She didn’t protest, but he could feel the girl loose a restrained sob into his mouth, and was it a tear he felt against his cheek? Those fleeting thoughts, those intrusions, were quickly replaced with more primal need. His fingers left hers as he held her hips, pulling her closer, parting her knees in the process.

He would hate himself, later.

She would be able to feel him, the hardness pressing against her abdomen. Is this what she wanted? Surely not, but it didn’t matter to him, not as he began to grind, lewdly against her, warning her of things to come. Digits crept under the elastic of her shorts, arms helping to lift her up and drag them down along with her underwear. Before the clothes had touched the wooden floorboards he was at his own zipper, the sound of teeth clicking down was startling in the quiet house, nearly as loud as her gasping breaths, her attempt to keep composure.

An amusing thought came to him then, as his fingers clasped her pale, perfect thighs. Most people were well-enough informed in regard to two of the the four reactions exhibited by animals in the wild; fight or flight. What many miss are the other two, and one in particular; fornication.

Fight, flight or fuck. The girl had made her choice.

She wrapped her arms around him, bracing, as he guided himself to her entrance. The girl buried her head into his neck, unable to meet his gaze. His lips grazed her ear, a sad smile she would never see displayed on his face. “Is this how you mean to barter for lodging, for safety, little one? Using what’s between your legs?” What a poor choice; the girl possessed greater, less costly tools, if she would care to learn how to use them.

Into his neck, he found his answer, her nose sliding up and down his skin in a nod. And he pressed himself in, a tight slide into her. She cried out, a muffled whine into his soft flesh, as her fingers dug into his back.

 


	15. fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanna make it right  
> i wanna make you cry
> 
> i follow soon, i follow soon,  
> i follow soon,  
> i follow...

Even as hard as he was, she was almost too tense for him as he undulated in and out in order to gain more ground. Too tense and _too tight…_

For a moment he stalled, arching his body back in order to look at her properly. He found hurting eyes when he met them, pained and loosing salty tears. It wasn’t nerves, it wasn’t the bargain he’d been expecting. It was the look of shock, of the newness, of being filled, claimed for the first time.

No, she couldn’t be...surely Joffrey had…?

_No. Oh, no._

He pulled out of her gradually, watching her reaction as he went. His hands gripped her waist still, and he wasn’t sure which of them he was attempting to keep grounded. Maybe both, maybe neither.

But the girl held him still, her hand pulling, trying to keep him close. “No! It’s okay; I’m okay…we can still-“

“Stop.” His tone left no room for argument; this wasn’t part of the game. This was different. He zipped up his pants, extracting himself from her hold, taking a step back and assessing the state of her. “Go clean yourself up. We’re done here.”

For a moment she just stared, pressing her knees together for some iota of privacy. He turned his head, eyes moving to the forgotten breakfast, to the spoon, to the table’s surface, to anywhere but her. He was still hard, his cock slick with her, barely concealed in his slacks.

He heard her move, and all the noises that indicated she was walking away. In his periphery he saw the shadow of the girl make her way to the bathroom, leaving him, finally, alone to his thoughts.

He sucked in air, a hand resting on the counter.

He’d forgotten to breathe.

 

Thirty minutes and the shower was still running; he could hear the dull flowing noises spilling from the hall. He tried to read the newspaper, but the text hung in front of him, unabsorbed, not comprehended. The only words he found floating in his mind formed a sentence, an accusation; _what have I done?_

Eventually, strange curiosity pried him from the stool and to the door, an ear pressed to the wood. Nothing, no sound save the water, running and running. The was no fumbling of shampoo bottles or opening of the shower door to be heard. His mind assumed the worst. A tally formed in his head; where did he keep his razorblades, how many pills did he have in the cabinet above the sink? How many things could she use to harm herself in that room?

But no, he ought to have known better. This was a girl stronger than she knew. She’d survived worse; she _would_ survive worse, especially if he let the boy take her back into his twisted world.

And so he knocked, and the girl didn’t respond. He sighed, impatient, knocking a second time after the first received no answer.

Finally he turned the handle, unsure, for once, of exactly what to expect.

He found her on the shower’s floor with her knees pulled up to her chest, letting the water rush over her face. The shirt was soaked; she hadn’t bothered to shed her clothing and it hung heavy on her form, making her appear thinner, smaller. Her eyes were closed, and she wasn’t crying.

The man opened the glass door, stepping into the small room, kneeling down to the girl. The water hit his back, his clothes dampening, but he seemed to ignore it. Hands grabbed either shoulder, startling her out of her thoughts. “Hey. Look at me.”

Slowly her head craned up, soft blue eyes meeting his stare. His form shielded him from the stream, from the lukewarm water that drenched her, that cleaned the blood that had surely been found between her legs. His hand tugged her, coercing her body up. She acquiesced, a tentative upward slide, allowing herself to be guided to stand.

When Petyr spoke again it was soft against the backdrop of the rushing shower. His tone was far from mean; it was tired, it was sad. Maybe it was sorry. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You..you told me to-“

“I told you to get cleaned up.” He nodded down to her shirt, to her pruned fingertips. “You’re going to make yourself sick.” It was something Cat used to say when they were kids, when he'd been out in the rain playing too long. It stung him when he heard himself say the words to her daughter, soiled and broken and taken by him. 

God, and how she laughed at that, startling him out of his memories. It was a pathetic noise, incredulous and much too loud. “Why do you care? You’re getting rid of me.” Her head dipped down so she could divert her stare to the small pool of water at their feet. She was defeated; that laugh seemed to have sucked out the last bits of energy from inside of her.

Petyr _reacted_ ; he didn’t realise he’d done it until it was too late. His hand grabbed her hair and yanked, jerking her head back up to look at him. Her eyes were wide; that bright blue watching him, waiting. His free hand flexed, uncertain, jaw tensing as grey bored into her.

The man’s arm moved, then, wrapping around her waist, bringing her close. The fist in her hair loosened until his palm rested at her occiput. An embrace, chests meeting amongst the tepid flow of water. His cheek brushed hers, a whisper in her ear. “Do you want to stay?”

A mirror of their earlier, dubious connection, her nose brushed against his skin in a nod.

“Okay.” He felt her small arms circle him, and he would kill for her, he knew. “I’ll keep you safe.”

And how bad is a lie, really, if it’s kindly meant?


	16. sixteenth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'cause sometimes my heart hurts to watch you  
> there's a blind spot that i can't but get to

There was a kiss. He wasn’t sure how it started. Perhaps their cheeks grazed as the water fell, and her mouth brushed his skin, experimentally, before their lips met. It was something tender and maybe even kind. Petyr thought he’d forgotten how to be that way; he was remembering something lost, then, as fingers gently slid against her damp neck.

She felt fragile, so easily breakable, despite the strength he knew rested inside. He wanted to feel her shatter under his hands, he wanted to teach her how to be inviolable. Each compulsion ruled out the previous, until he gave up entirely, letting his baser instincts overrule his mind.

For long moments their mouths slid against each other, deepening with each pause for breath. It was slow and easy, the urgency and cruelty of the kitchen temporarily forgotten. Her arms came around to rest at his shoulders; tangible, visible evidence that she did not want to part from him.

He reached for the end of her shirt, lifting the wet fabric off of her skin, her arms raising to assist him. And his came next; he peeled it away and discarded it to the shower’s floor without a second thought. She was bare, open, and he pressed himself to her, the girl’s back finding the wall. Skin covered in droplets of water slid in tandem, her hardened nipples brushing his chest, and the man would never let anyone hurt her again.

Eventually he broke them apart, finding the knob and ending the stream that drenched them. His free hand reached to her and pulled, dragging her out of the shower and into the open space, kicking his slacks off as he went until they were equally exposed. His mouth never lefts hers for too long, each step was paired with renewed contact, one hand a constant on her waist to ensure her compliance.

They paused in the hall, long enough for him to drag her leg up around his torso, her spine supported by the door to his room, sliding his cock up and down her slit until she whimpered. And into his room he guided her next, pressing her down onto the bed, settling atop her, parting her legs as if he’d done in a thousand times before.

This time there were no tears when he filled her. She moaned, she writhed beneath him, nails dragging down the flesh of his back. And he drove deeper, thrusting into her until he could no longer keep silent, groaning into her mouth when he met it. She felt too good; tight and warm and _ready_ , and the man wouldn’t last much longer. Frenzied fingers came between them, reaching between her legs to coax her to her end.

The sounds she made as she neared her peak were enough to send him over; he stilled inside of her, mouth agape against her neck as he came, fingers circling her still, feeling her pull him deeper, feeling her clench and tense around him.

 

An hour, a day, a year later, and they were facing each other, legs intertwined, noses just brushing. 

She was soft under his wandering fingers, leaning to plant small kisses every once in a while, as if she'd forgotten his taste and needed a reminder. All the while he kept his eyes open, even when she would close hers, watching the sun in her hair, the flush of her sated cheeks.

The man found himself humming, quietly, low into the inch of space between them. The noise shifted as he buried his mouth into her neck, the words linking together into a half-song:

_"Gan í ar láimh liom, is cloíte atá mé_  
_Ó a chailín álainn, ‘s tú fáth mo bhróin"_

She watched him, eyes narrowing, as if the melody was meant to do her harm. “What does it mean?” Her fingers grazed his back, and he wondered if she even realised she was doing it.

“It's just something I learned as a child.” Something he used to sing to her mother, when he was a boy and in love and in grief. “It’s an old song about a girl.”

“Am I the girl?” A smile, and his chest constricted. It burned, and he would die every single day to see that smile again.

There were no words left for him to answer. He kissed her, reaching for her thigh to wrap her closer around him, preparing to take her again.

 

When she finally dozed, groggy and content, the man pried himself from her. Feet carried him into the kitchen, to the forgotten newspaper, to the phone that rested on top of it. Before he returned to her, before he woke her again and pulled her close again, he sent a message to a terrible boy.

**_**

**I'm done. She’s ready. Collect her at your leisure.**

**_**


	17. seventeenth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and watching lovers part, i feel you smiling  
> what glass splinters lie so deep in your mind?  
> to tear out from your eyes with a word to stiffen brooding lies  
> but i'll only watch you leave me further behind

Time went by, faster than he would have liked. The sun rose steadily and then fell; he could see their shadows shifting as he moved atop her on the bed, until there was barely any light in the room at all. His body was exhausted, even as it begged for more. The girl beneath him moaned, and he entered her again, that sore wince from before was nowhere to be found; the pain and pleasure was surely indistinguishable after so long.

And was this his way of apologising after taking advantage of her, after stealing her innocence? Was fucking her over and over, relishing the way her tired voice pleaded to make her come, some sort of reparation? No, he knew it wasn’t; it was selfish and cruel, even if she was a willing party.

And worse; she thought it was over, she thought the battle had ended. Poor thing, she had no idea.

The girl arched her back, her legs wrapping around his thighs, pulling him deeper. She’d been a quick learner, and the man was thankful for it as he groaned into her neck, giving her quick, short thrusts until she gasped his name. A set of harsher presses and the man met his own end, filling her, not for the first time that day. He would worry about the danger of coming inside of her later, after she was away and gone. For the moment, he was making a claim, he was taking something that never should have been his.

He fell to his side, keeping her close as she caught her breath. Her chest heaved, and he reached to graze a pale breast, unable to resist touching her. She sighed, moving into him, and as her eyes closed he knew he’d never see anything so perfect again.

Moments passed before she spoke. “What’s my tell?” The girl whispered the question, as if she wanted to keep the walls unaware of their conversation.

He smirked at her as eyes pried open to stare back at him. “If I told you, you wouldn’t learn anything.”

“If you tell me mine I’ll tell you yours.” Her hand threaded into his hair, to his temple. She was feeling the greying patches there, and the man leaned into her hand like some loyal pet.

An eyebrow raised. “You think I have a tell?”

The girl nodded. “I know you do. I’ve seen it.”

He very much doubted it; his entire life revolved around being able to fool, to deceive. Sansa thought after such a short time she could read him, and as amusing as it was to him, she was mistaken. “Let’s get you cleaned up first.” Truthfully, the man simply didn’t want to talk.

 

He led her from the bed, finally, surveying the sweat and come covering the sheets, before guiding her into the bathroom. This shower was decidedly better than the previous; he kissed her over and over, deep and sated as he cleaned himself from her body. Their movements were lazy, slowly letting themselves relax under the stream of warm water, until the girl was nearly falling asleep where she stood.

“Are you tired?” The man didn’t need to ask; the answer was writ plainly on her face.

She smiled as she nodded, and the smile hurt him. It was the hazy smile of someone smitten, of affection, and he wanted to rip it from her face, tear it away and forget it. Instead, his fingers grazed her side, pulling her close until their mouths met again and he didn’t have to look at her. He said he'd keep her safe, he said he'd keep her safe. _Bréagadóir_ , a voice said in his head, and he wasn't sure whose voice it was; maybe Cat's, maybe his mother's, or maybe it was Sansa's lilt that accused in a tongue she didn't even know. 

He left her alone to sleep in her bed, that damp hair falling onto the pillow without another thought; she was sleeping before he had a chance to leave the room.

 

She was sleeping when the knock came. She was sleeping when the boy entered his home, two brutes in tow. She was sleeping when they walked down the hall, to the room her _protector_ pointed to, and opened the door to where she rested.

He heard her scream, he heard furniture topple and a boyish laugh. He watched them carry her from the room and toward the entrance of his house. He watched her kick and scream with fists balled and his name on her lips, begging for help.

And he watched her watch him, the silent observer, her saviour leaning against the wall with apathetic eyes.

And that’s when she stopped fighting.


	18. eighteenth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been seeing all, i've been seeing your soul  
> give me things that i've wanted to know  
> tell me things that you've done  
> i've been feeling old, i've been feeling cold  
> you're the heat that i know  
> listen, you are my sun

He was alone in the house, and for the first time he could feel it, the empty, the _nothing._ He slept in the spare bedroom, on the bed not stained with them; and he could smell her in the sheets, on the pillow. One last deep inhale after he woke, and he balled the blankets and pillowcases up in his arms, tossing them into the washing machine without a second thought. His own bedding would come next.

A message from the boy arrived sometime in the morning; he hadn’t been checking his phone.

**_**

**Not you best work, but she’ll do.**  
**Not quite housebroken yet…**

**_**

 

It was the closest thing to a thank you he’d ever gotten, and he hated it.

She was on the news an hour later. He heard the story while he worked from his computer, and his eyes lifted to watch the clip. The reporter was hailing it a miracle that she was found, and the girl in the scene looked well, healthy, unharmed. He saw no bruises or signs of injury, although he knew those things could easily be hidden. She looked grateful, she looked happy; she was a liar, a liar, a liar.

 

He ate, he slept, he went to work. Days passed and his routine resumed. Joffrey seemed pleased, and Petyr knew he wouldn’t have a new assignment for some time. The girl would keep him preoccupied. 

 

One day, maybe a week after she’d been extracted from his home, she made her way through the firm’s halls. He saw her before she saw him; she was listening to her beau chatter away as they walked near the spot where he was scolding some intern. Her arm was loosely locked around the boy’s elbow, and she didn't notice him. 

He saw her again in a meeting; when she entered the room half the board wanted to hear details of her spectacular recovery. And she wove a strong, believable tale; one that he was certain Joffrey had no hand in concocting. She’d been lost in the mountains, and what a silly, stupid thing, and she was so sorry for worrying everyone.

More than likely, not a soul in the room believed it. More than likely, they were just happy it was a breathing, beating body found and not a corpse.

She never looked at him.

 

In the afternoon, she found her way into his office. He didn’t have to glance up from his work to know it was her; he knew her walk, her breath. The door closed with a click and the silence was, for once, not a comfort. She came closer, and he could see her fingers splay on the wooden surface in front of him, covering the paper he was reading, demanding his attention. He wondered where Joffrey was, and how she’d managed to slink away.

His eyes followed her forearm, elbow, shoulder, neck, and finally her face. And she was hurt, and he was drowning.

He took a deep breath, and maybe he heard himself say “ _fuck_ ,” before he acted.

He grabbed her, fingers digging remorselessly into the soft flesh of her hips as he pulled her down to his lap. Her skirt hitched, her mouth opened in surprise, and he gave her no time to close it; his own mouth covered hers in a biting kiss.

When he was sure she wasn’t going to try to leave, when he felt her moan, pressing her chest against him, his hands left her waist. One tangled in her hair while the other slipped under her clothes, between her legs, shifting her underwear aside to touch her.

She pulled back, a gasp of a word on her lips: “Petyr,” and he slid index and middle inside of her. Sansa rocked against him, palms on his shoulders, eyes closed and hair a waterfall of red around her face. She was lovely, she was a fool to let him do it to her. He was a fool for doing it.

But even her seeking hips, her warm body, could not cease the question from surfacing. The girl’s eyes opened as she undulated, meeting his stare. “Was it all a game? All of it? Even this?” The words were a struggle to get out as she neared her peak, as she moved with building haste.

Why did she have to ask? Why did she have to ruin it?

The man pulled his digits out of her, not finished with their task. His hand lifted to graze her face, leaving a lewd trail of herself on her chin as he caressed. Her eyes were still alight with need, her body taut in wait. “Every second of it. Even this.”

He stood up, and the girl nearly toppled in surprise. Still, she bore the blow well as heels found the ground; her face showed only the briefest moment of sadness, of disappointment. He left her there, in his own office, to collect herself.

Before he walked out the door, he thought he heard her say something. _Liar_ , it might have been, but he could have sworn it sounded more like _bréagadóir_.


	19. nineteenth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hear it calling  
> hear how it whispers  
> i will find you  
> i'll come and find you

He sat at his desk, staring at the message, the one sent by the boy, but not written by the boy himself.

**_**

**i know you’ll come for me.**

**_**

 

And how had she managed to get ahold of his phone? Joffrey wore his the device as an extension of his body; it was never far away. She would have been clever about it, she would have made sure the message wasn’t viewed by anyone else.

He couldn’t respond; he had no way of knowing how long she’d have the mobile, how much time before it was back with its owner. And worse, he didn’t have a response for her.

 

He was in bed that night, eyes staring at the ceiling as he weaved a plan in his mind, when his phone vibrated.

 

**_**

**you won’t let him hurt me again.**

**_**

 

and then:

 

**_**

**he’s going to. soon. hurt me.**

**_**

 

He set the phone aside. He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come.

 

In the end it took three phone calls to orchestrate half a dozen deaths. Given more time, it might have taken less.

 

-

 

It was an isolated part of town, somewhere quiet, somewhere unexpected. A closed up old shoe repair shop stood to one side, abandoned houses on the other. He’d been there for an hour without seeing anyone; no one would be a witness to the transaction.

He heard it on the radio on his way to their meeting point. _Tragedy strikes in the city_ , the speaker told him, _six fatalities and cause of death unknown_ , the voice said, tone far more somber than before. They’d discover it soon; something in the wine, and who would want to kill a child? A boy? Even if the rumours of his violent fetishes were true, he was so young, there would have been plenty of time for him to change.

His feet tapped against the cobblestone as he leaned against the car, waiting and waiting, a thick envelope between his fingers. After a few more moments a black vehicle pulled up, two familiar faces in the front seats. The bumbling fool had done his job, then, he saw as he pried the struggling girl from the backseat and brought her forward. They had a sack over her head, but the familiar red spilled beneath it. Her hands were bound behind her back, her body tense. But she seemed unharmed; they must have slipped out before the mayhem.

“This the one, boss? Do you need to see her face?”

Petyr shook his head, stepping aside as they tossed her into his own car, making sure to lock the door despite her ties. The idiot man before him mumbled something about his pay, his reward for the extraction, for making sure she had no sip of the lethal alcohol, and he passed the envelope to the men. Without a second glance to either of them, he turned and made his way to the car, to the girl.

As Petyr drove away, he heard the gunshots. There had been no money, no reward in that envelope; the two men were loose ends that needed a good trim.

A noise from behind him, something sad, and he knew she’d heard it as well.

 

 

His aim was south as he rested his hands on the wheel. No one knew of his childhood home, the rain-soaked land of his youth. No one would look for him there. Best to get away from the chaos until it settled down again, until the boy was replaced with someone decidedly more pliable. Piece by piece it would all come together, and he would watch from afar until it was safe to return. There was something his mother used to say, something about building castles. _As a chéile a dhéantar na caisleáin_. The trick was to be patient, these things take time.

The girl was silent behind him, unmoving. It seemed she was waiting for something, perhaps waiting for him to speak.

He pulled over when they reached the mountains, happy enough with the distance placed between the massacre and themselves. He slid out of the driver’s seat, rounding the car until he could open the door to were Sansa was slumped, and did she know it was him? Surely not; the way she tensed, the way her breathing grew shallow and frantic when he touched her shoulder, told him as much.

“Are you hurt?” Petyr’s words were soft; and she was the frightened little animal again, needing to be reassured.

Hearing his voice, she relaxed, her covered head moving to the sound of him. “Petyr?”

“Yeah.” He lifted the sack off of her, and he was pleased to see no bruises, no tears to indicate anything violent.

“I knew you’d come back.” She smiled as he led her out of the car, reaching to untie her hands.

And how did she know, when he didn’t know himself? The girl flexed her fingers, turned her wrists, growing accustomed to the freedom. Her arms lifted, finding his torso, pulling him to her. The kiss was a _thank you_ , her mouth allowing his tongue to dip in, one hand threading into her hair. It might also have been an apology; the tender way he cradled her head, the slow way their lips met. It might have been, if the man knew how to truly be sorry.

But time would not be on their side for long, and Petyr felt that urgency nettling in his chest. He pulled away, releasing her and taking a step back.

“Ready to go?” He’d barely finished the sentence when she moved. She bolted, she ran, darting into the brush and between trees. There was something graceful about the way she fled; her body seemed to weave effortlessly between the wood. For a moment, he simply watched. For a moment, he was caught off guard.

And should he chase her? Is that was she wanted? Perhaps not; maybe he should drive off, let the remaining lions find her, devour her, destroy her. He would simply shift his plans, alter them to remove the girl from the equation. It would make little difference in the grand scheme of things.

He stilled as the distance between them grew. His lips still tasted like her. Her body heat lingered all around him.

He took a breath. His weight shifted on a heel, pressing against the ground hard, before pushing off into a sprint.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hello! thanks for reading, and for all the lovely comments!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the things she said she'd never do  
> a little fun for me, and none for you  
> i'm the thing you fenced in  
> i'm ten men

The air was damp; he drank it in place of breathing, the moisture hanging so thick around him. And the wind, how he’d forgotten the gusts that never seemed to cease, a unending barrage; the only goal seemed to be to assault his body. His hair was wet, the tendrils curling around his head, and he was so unlike the trimmed man who lived somewhere else, now.

Each morning he walked the coast, tracing the steps he’d made in a lonely childhood on the isolated land. He needed the exercise for both his body and his mind, he needed time alone to plan, to think. The girl wasn’t loud, but even in her silence she was a constant distraction, her eyes on him always, her questions unspoken.

But she let him have his walks, choosing instead to stay inside where there was no wind to battle, no soft rain to coat her. She would turn over in the bed they shared, a simple stirring as he woke up each morning, falling back to sleep before the door had a chance to shut.

They were waiting, waiting for the smoke to clear, waiting for it to be safe. It had all happened much earlier than he’d intended, the dominos fell haphazardly around, not quite landing the way he wanted. And so he opted to _watch_ , to let the new leaders of the firm settle into a false sense of security again before they returned, before they brought it all crashing down.

And yes, it was _they_ now, and when exactly had it happened? They slept, they ate, they fucked. They didn’t talk, not about anything of substance. She asked about a candle, once, something settled in an ornate holder, something his mother had loved. She asked about the home, and who had looked after it in all the years since his parents died. She asked if he liked it, as she straddled him, stroking his cock with a lazy hand, teasing him until he lifted her up and carried her to the bed. But they never spoke of what happened, the boy, the poison, the woods.

The water nearly reached him each time a wave landed on the shore, the small shells crunching under his boots. Aside from the natural sounds it was quiet, and he was bored, finding it harder to be patient with each passing day.

The silence broke after a moment; he heard the rushed padding of shoes on wet sand, a girlish heaving breath, a mess of red hair catching up to him. She looked tired, clad in a heavy sweater and jeans, hurrying to his side. “Can I walk with you today?”

“Yeah, alright.”

And then, nothing again, and somehow the lack of conversation seemed to bother her in a way it didn’t inside the old house. Her arms fidgeted at her side, her hair flew all about, her eyes scrunched. “Why do you go so early? There’s no one here anyway. You could sleep in.”

The man shrugged. He didn't know; it was the truth. Maybe he didn’t know how to sleep in after decades of running on a handful of hours’ rest.  
And she was defeated, unable to break through the _nothing_ between them, and he thought she might be planning to turn and leave him. Her steps slowed, her eyes watching, always watching.

It was then that Petyr asked, “Why did you run?” She would know what he meant; the woods, the chase.

It was funny, her shrug in response, that cavalier lift of shoulders. She waited for the wind to calm for a second before she spoke again. Even so, he nearly missed it when she did. “What’s my tell, Petyr?”

He stopped then, turning to face her. He wondered if she’d figured it out herself and was just asking for some sort of validation, and who was he to keep it from her, really? He lifted his arm, his thumb coming up to graze her lower lip. “Here.” Her brows furrowed, mouth opening just slightly at his touch. He moved in closer to avoid raising his voice in the wind. “When you lie, your lips tighten like you’re trying to hide a sour taste in your mouth. Like you’ve just eaten a lemon.” His thumb moved, and his mouth quickly replaced it, granting her a brief kiss. “Remember that, will you?”

The girl nodded as she pulled away, crossing her arms in the chill. If he were a gentleman he would have offered his coat, but he’d given her enough for today. “I’ll practice.” And he was sure she would.

“What’s mine?” Or rather, what did she think his was? He was still unconvinced.

Her arms still at her chest, hiding her shiver, she nodded to his face. “Your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

“Yeah. I can tell by your eyes.” Sansa seemed so certain that she nearly had Petyr believing it.

He smiled; the girl was seeing things, she had no idea. There was no tell for him, but she could think what she wanted. “Sure.”

He made to start moving again, to continue their walk, but the girl uncrossed an arm to stop him, her hand moving to his shoulder. “Wait. Wait.” When she had his attention, her eyes narrowed. “Were you always planning to help me? From the start?”

She knew that answer, and he was truthful, as cruel as it was. “No.”

She nodded, keeping her blue gaze on the greenish-grey. “Were you always planning to fuck me?”

Again, she knew, and why was she asking. “No.”

“Do you want to now?”

The man took a step toward her, breath shared. “Yes.”

“Would you have let them hurt me?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

The man raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to speak again, waiting for her to finish. He was growing tired of the game.

“One more.” She said, as if reading his mind. She paused for a few seconds, choosing her words carefully. “Is there anyone you care for? More than yourself?”

 

  
When Petyr thought about it later, lying in bed next to her, both of them sated, he knew it was the silence that gave it away. Or maybe it was his eyes, maybe she saw the lie in them. If she forgot everything else, all else he had to teach her, he knew she would remember that lie.  



End file.
